Luna almost never spoke. And what she said didn’t sound accidental. It sounded like memory. Like old fear.
Julia swallowed, set the brush down slowly, and replied softly, hiding the storm inside her:
“It’s okay. We’ll stop for now.”
That night, Julia couldn’t sleep. Richard had told her Luna’s mother was dead. So why did that word carry such precise emotion? Why did Luna tense as if expecting a shout? In the following days, Julia noticed patterns. Luna flinched when someone walked behind her. She stiffened when certain voices rose. And most of all, she seemed to worsen after specific medications.
The answers began to form in a storage room.
Julia opened an old cabinet and found boxes with faded labels, bottles, vials with unfamiliar names. Some had red warning labels. The dates were years old. And one name appeared again and again:
Luna Wakefield.
Julia took photos and spent the night researching each medication as if searching for air.
What she found made her blood run cold.
Experimental treatments. Severe side effects. Substances banned in some countries.
This wasn’t careful medical care.
It was a risk map.